Part 5 (1/2)

And blinking overhead the white stars keep Watch o'er his hemlock bed--his sinless sleep.

AT HUSKING TIME

At husking time the ta.s.sel fades To brown above the yellow blades, Whose rustling sheath enswathes the corn That bursts its chrysalis in scorn Longer to lie in prison shades.

Among the merry lads and maids The creaking ox-cart slowly wades Twixt stalks and stubble, sacked and torn At husking time.

The prying pilot crow persuades The flock to join in thieving raids; The sly rac.o.o.n with craft inborn His portion steals; from plenty's horn His pouch the saucy chipmunk lades At husking time.

WORKWORN

Across the street, an humble woman lives; To her 'tis little fortune ever gives; Denied the wines of life, it puzzles me To know how she can laugh so cheerily.

This morn I listened to her softly sing, And, marvelling what this effect could bring I looked: 'twas but the presence of a child Who pa.s.sed her gate, and looking in, had smiled.

But self-encrusted, I had failed to see The child had also looked and laughed to me.

My lowly neighbour thought the smile G.o.d-sent, And singing, through the toilsome hours she went.

O! weary singer, I have learned the wrong Of taking gifts, and giving naught of song; I thought my blessings scant, my mercies few, Till I contrasted them with yours, and you; To-day I counted much, yet wished it more-- While but a child's bright smile was all your store,

If I had thought of all the stormy days, That fill some lives that tread less favoured ways, How little suns.h.i.+ne through their shadows gleamed, My own dull life had much the brighter seemed; If I had thought of all the eyes that weep Through desolation, and still smiling keep, That see so little pleasure, so much woe, My own had laughed more often long ago; If I had thought how leaden was the weight Adversity lays at my kinsman's gate, Of that great cross my next door neighbour bears, My thanks had been more frequent in my prayers; If I had watched the woman o'er the way, Workworn and old, who labours day by day, Who has no rest, no joy to call her own, My tasks, my heart, had much the lighter grown.

EASTER

April 1, 1888

Lent gathers up her cloak of sombre shading In her reluctant hands.

Her beauty heightens, fairest in its fading, As pensively she stands Awaiting Easter's benediction falling, Like silver stars at night, Before she can obey the summons calling Her to her upward flight, Awaiting Easter's wings that she must borrow Ere she can hope to fly-- Those glorious wings that we shall see to-morrow Against the far, blue sky.

Has not the purple of her vesture's lining Brought calm and rest to all?

Has her dark robe had naught of golden s.h.i.+ning Been naught but pleasure's pall?

Who knows? Perhaps when to the world returning In youth's light joyousness, We'll wear some rarer jewels we found burning In Lent's black-bordered dress.

So hand in hand with fitful March she lingers To beg the crowning grace Of lifting with her pure and holy fingers The veil from April's face.

Sweet, rosy April--laughing, sighing, waiting Until the gateway swings, And she and Lent can kiss between the grating Of Easter's tissue wings.

Too brief the bliss--the parting comes with sorrow.

Good-bye dear Lent, good-bye!

We'll watch your fading wings outlined to-morrow Against the far blue sky.

ERIE WATERS